


Of the whole, greater than the sum

by kittiwake



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha Martin Blackwood, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bizarre mind-meld dynamics, Canon Asexual Character, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Omega Elias Bouchard, Omega Jon Sims, Oral Sex, Purely Self-Indulgent Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, that's all this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29413695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittiwake/pseuds/kittiwake
Summary: There’s that scent he’s been missing. Bitter and sweet all at once, caramel burning and sticking to the bottom of a pan, toffee-sweet stickiness mingled with ash. The air is thick with it in the empty reception and it’s beyond doubt what’s causing it. Somewhere in this building there is an omega in the throes of heat. Martin looks stricken, his body tense against Jon’s, and Jon feels an odd pang of sympathy for whomever it must be.In which Elias makes bets, Martin is as helpful as it's possible to be, and Jon is increasingly baffled by the machinations of the Eye.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 104





	Of the whole, greater than the sum

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't tagged this as dub-con on the basis that everything within the fic is fully consensual, but also the nature of omegaverse dynamics makes consent sketchy at best so if you are liable to be triggered or unsettled by dubcon or issues around intoxication such as heats, please do bear that in mind!
> 
> Words used for Elias' genitalia are cunt & cock.

The first hint that anything is amiss is a twinge in Jon’s gut in the morning that makes him hiss, pressing a palm to his belly and frowning. It’s a tickle at first, and then a spasm. By evening it’s near-constant, a clenching and fluttering of muscles that has Jon bending briefly double over his desk, his free hand white-knuckling the arm of his chair. 

“ _Shit_ ,” he whispers, panicked realisation soaking through him before he can quite formulate his thoughts, “shit shit _shit_.” Heat. It must be. Somehow he’s lost track of his cycle, somehow he’s forgotten to take suppressants, how could he have been so _stupid?_ How could he let this happen? How could he-

Jon has to take a moment, then, to straighten up, eyes narrowed as he walks back through the events of the last few days. He took his suppressant this morning. It wouldn’t be out of character for him to forget taking them, but it’s another thing to mistakenly remember taking them; he distinctly remembers the weight of the pill against his tongue, swilled back with a wave of bitter coffee, the neatly-printed _Tuesday_ on the pill-sorter he uses each day. 

And whilst the cramps are still twitching and writhing within the pit of his stomach, pulsing like something living that wants to get out, they’re nowhere near as intense as they would be during a heat. There’s sweat beading at his temples and down his spine, yes, but he’s not feverish. When he tucks his nose under the neckline of his jumper for an experimental sniff he smells like soap and deodorant, not the heady burned-sugar scent of heat. His breathing isn’t quite steady, but it’s not the frantic chest-heaving panting of a heat either. 

It feels distinctly peculiar. Almost like a phantom heat, one held at arm’s length, like experiencing it in a dream. Jon takes another brief moment to panic about immaculate conception before getting his thoughts in order and reminding himself that, _no_ , that isn’t possible. And if _spontaneous pregnancy_ were somehow a side-effect of being the Archivist, he’s reasonably sure somebody would have mentioned it by now. Reasonably sure. Elias’ tendency to omit pertinent information is something that can’t be discounted. 

Jon grimaces at the next twitch, huffing out a breath as he waits for it to pass, hideously reminiscent of the firecrackle wave of need washing from head to toe during a heat. The wood of the desk is cool against his forehead, quite soothing, and so Jon closes his eyes a moment to try and gather his thoughts again. Whatever this is, _whyever_ this is, it’s not particularly conducive to getting any further work done. He can hardly record statements while his body is in the grip of a bizarre phantom heat, not with his voice hitching and cracking with each new spasm, his breathing unsteady. It would sound—

Ridiculous. Obscene, even. Not an option, not only for the sake of his professional pride but because statements once recorded are handed to the assistants for research which means, yes, Melanie and Basira listening to them, and also _Martin_.

Jon doesn’t want to imagine what Martin might look like hearing his voice like that, strained and cracked, caught between gasping intakes of breath. His brain doesn’t seem to give a damn for his opinion on the matter and gamely conjures an image up anyway, Martin flushing and chewing his lower lip, eyes flicking guiltily to the recorder and back again as he tries to decide whether or not he ought to be listening to this, hands perhaps creeping to the buckle of his belt as he listens anyway—

Jon does not want to have sex with Martin. The problem is what he _does_ want to do with him, namely to bury his nose in his collar and feel his arms around him, to perch on his kitchen counter while Martin prattles on about—about—God, _Bake Off_ , or jam, or a conversation he overheard at the tills in Co-op. Anything. 

Perhaps it’s a facet of having been recently kidnapped and plunged headlong into a hitherto unimagined world full of supernatural horrors, but Jon finds himself more and more enthralled by domesticity these days. And Martin Blackwood is domesticity incarnate, homecoming wrapped in a jumper with a cup of tea in its hands and bloody alpha pheromones to boot. 

The upshot is that Jon is harbouring a distressing amount of emotion regarding Martin Blackwood for a man who a year or so ago would quite cheerfully have pushed him into Storage and locked the door just for a day’s peace. Having affection and worry and exasperation and guilt wrapped up in a parcel of biological impulses is rather more complicated than Jon would have expected, and—

Well, and the _point_ is that he can’t record any more statements today lest Martin should listen to them, and that’s that. 

Mind made up, Jon stands and reaches for his coat to throw it over his arm, reluctant to put it on properly when he’s already so _warm_. He feels faintly light-headed when he stands, steadying himself against a filing cabinet and grimacing at the faint wetness gathering between his thighs—sweat or slick he isn’t sure, but whichever it is he’d much prefer it _not_ be there. What’s _happening_ to him? 

All goes to plan for approximately fifteen minutes. Jon gathers up his things and slings his backpack over his shoulder, exiting swiftly through the office that the assistants share. It’s past six and the place is blessedly quiet. Jon can’t remember the last time he left the office at six, and despite the unnerving new state of his body he feels oddly buoyant. He can go home, take a bath, make himself some food that isn’t a sandwich snatched from a nearby coffee shop. Perhaps he’ll even get a decent night’s sleep. 

On the way towards reception, two things happen. The first is that Jon bumps into Martin, who’s coming back towards the Archives from the kitchenette with two mugs in his hand, and the impact sends coffee spilling everywhere. The second is that another pulse hits him directly in the gut and makes him groan through swiftly-gritted teeth, bracing a hand against the wall. 

“Jon! Oh my God, Jon, I’m so sorry—did I burn you, are you alright?” 

Ah, there it is, that lovely, predictable concern, Martin flapping his hands in lieu of doing anything like actual contact. He has such _nice_ hands. 

Nice to know that his subconscious can be disgustingly gooey even while he’s bent double on the stairs. 

“Martin,” Jon replies with an effort. “I’m—no, I’m fine. I’m _fine_. What are you still doing here?” 

Martin gives him a surprisingly flat look at that and Jon manages to engage his brain enough to recognise that whilst he hasn’t left the office early in months, through most of his late nights there have been hot cups of tea and coffee landing on his desk regardless. 

“Ah,” he says. Good to see that whatever this is hasn’t affected his masterful command of language. God, he feels hot all over, breathing a little laboured as he straightens up and tries not to swoon straight down the stairs again. 

“You don’t look well,” Martin observes and Jon muffles a hysterical laugh, shaking one foot where spilled coffee has splashed against his ankle and is now pooling unpleasantly in his sock. 

“ _Thank_ you, Martin.” 

“No, I mean—I mean, you don’t look—normally you look _fine_ , better than fine even, but right now you look—” Martin appears to give up on talking, pressing his lips together abruptly. Probably for the best, as Jon’s having trouble picking through the mess of words to pick out anything of any use. His senses are oddly heightened; once again, not nearly to the lightning-snap overstimulation of heat, but he can smell the sour-sweet tang of concern over Martin’s usual smell and the bitterness of spilled coffee. 

“A bit peaky,” he finishes for Martin who nods, relieved, wringing his hands together. “I’m fine. I’m—well, to be quite honest I don’t know _what’s_ wrong with me, but I think it’s for the best that I go home.” 

“This isn’t-” Martin hesitates again, pulling a face, “a, er. An _Eye_ thing? Sorry. That feels like there should’ve been a clap of thunder or something when I said that.” 

“A swell of dramatic organ music,” Jon agrees, curling his fingers tightly around the banister. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, it feels distinctly physiological.”

“Oh.” Martin looks at him askance for a moment before his eyes fly wide and his cheeks darken, one hand flying to his mouth. Joining the dots, then. Feverish, clammy forehead, lightheadedness, heavy breathing, surely it was only a matter of time before that idea settled itself in Martin’s head. “ _Oh_. God, Jon, you’re not-” 

“ _No_.” Jon shakes his head firmly and immediately regrets it when another wave of dizziness hits him. “No. No, I’m not, and you _know_ I’m not, you and everyone else in here would be able to tell if I was. But it feels...similar.” 

“Alright.” Martin exhales hard, sucks in another breath as if confirming that, no, the air around them isn’t full of the unmistakable scent of heat. “Alright. Well, look, you should definitely go home.” Jon waves his backpack pointedly and Martin nods. “Right, yeah, got you, but I mean—let me help you home? Just so I know you’re safe?” 

It’s a perfectly reasonable request, Jon knows, but he can’t shake the thought that if he lets Martin take him home he’ll end up doing something humiliating because _God_ , he wants nothing more than to bury himself in Martin’s chest and just _hold_ him, find himself an anchor amidst this unhappy sea of fear. Every cell of his body is whispering to him that Martin is safe, that he’ll take care of him. Jon knows that this is true, that it would be true irrespective of whether Martin was an alpha or not, but the pheromones aren’t helping either. He feels oversensitive to it, torn between pulling away and pressing closer. 

Martin is still watching him for a response. 

Jon coughs, lifting his right shoe out of a puddle of coffee and starting to bend to retrieve one of the empty mug. “Yes. Er. Yes. Thank you.” 

“That’s okay.” Martin picks up the other mug, shaking coffee from his hand with a rueful look. “I can’t remember the last time I went home at a decent hour.” 

“No, neither can I.” Jon tries to think of a polite way to apologise for Martin having stayed late without revealing that he hadn’t really considered the provenance of his mysterious midnight cups of tea. Maybe it’s just difficult to remember that Martin isn’t living at the Institute right now. Certainly it’s difficult to remember anything past the fuzz in his head and Jon stifles another groan at the next cramp, locking his knees to keep them from buckling.

“Does it hurt?” Martin asks softly, and Jon shakes his head. 

“Not...not as such. It’s just, er. Odd. I’ll be alright.” If this _were_ a heat he knows what he’d do about it, but in the absence of the conventional solution he supposes he’ll just try a warm bath and a couple of ibuprofen and go from there. 

“If you’re sure. C’mon, I’ll take these back to the kitchen, and then let’s go.” Martin bustles away with the mugs in-hand. On his return he offers Jon his arm, of all things, and it’s so distractingly courteous and downright _dated_ that Jon laughs out loud. He takes it anyway. He doesn’t have the strength, physical or otherwise, not to feel the softness of Martin’s jumper under his fingers, the way Martin takes his weight as they carry on up the stairs. 

The pulses are _certainly_ getting worse. By the time they reach reception Jon’s stumbling, leaning his weight heavily into Martin’s side, and he’s just about to suggest that he might need a doctor when Martin stiffens at his side. A moment later, Jon understands why. 

_There’s_ that scent he’s been missing. Bitter and sweet all at once, caramel burning and sticking to the bottom of a pan, toffee-sweet stickiness mingled with ash. The air is thick with it in the empty reception and it’s beyond doubt what’s causing it. Somewhere in this building there is an omega in the throes of heat. Martin looks stricken, his body tense against Jon’s, and Jon feels an odd pang of sympathy for whomever it must be. 

“We should, ah-” Martin’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips and he clears his throat, eyes a little glazed. “Maybe...a doctor, do you think?” 

“Hm?” Jon’s swaying on his feet a little, mind shot through with the facsimile of that searing need, caught between the feeling that he’s in heat and the knowledge that he is not. 

“For whoever it is,” Martin clarifies. “I mean—if they’re still here, that’s not good. They shouldn’t be on their own.” 

Jon nods, rubbing his eyes with one hand. Rosie’s left a shawl slung over the chair behind her desk, and right now all Jon wants to do is wrap it around himself and try and form some pen-pots and a visitors’ ledger into a makeshift nest. 

“I can try to find them,” Martin says gently, “but I don’t want to leave you.” 

“I— _ah_ -” Jon snaps his mouth abruptly shut again, holding tightly to Martin’s arm as the next wave slams through him, a grasping, ghostly hand stirring around his belly. “I don’t—I—oh, God.” 

“Jon?” 

Jon doesn’t reply. His senses are catching up again, heightening with his body temperature. The echoes of his groan are hanging in the air but so are the echoes of another one, close enough that it could only have been a few metres away. 

“Unless someone is hiding under Rosie’s desk,” he grits out quietly, “then I know where they are.” 

“What? Where?” Martin follows Jon’s eyes to the closed door of Elias’ office and he blanches, taking an actual step back. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says succinctly. And then, “I’m going to check if someone’s hiding under Rosie’s desk.” 

“No such luck, I’m afraid,” Jon replies, his voice faint to his own ears. 

“Don’t suppose anyone’s snuck into Elias’ office?” Martin says with bright, forced hope, and Jon shrugs. 

“I think there’s only one way of finding out.” 

“Shit.” 

Martin hesitates. Jon can feel the thought thrumming through both of them—that they could leave. They could ignore whatever’s occurring in Elias’ office in favour of worrying about whatever’s happening to him. That they could just travel away from the Institute and ignore all social convention regarding assisting omegas in the middle of an unsupported or unplanned heat. 

Jon knows that Martin isn’t going to leave anymore than he is. Whatever his thoughts on Elias might be, the thoughts of being left in the middle of the heat, alone and in an _office_ of all places, unable to get home or to leave—he shudders. It’s not the sort of thing he’d inflict upon anybody, and Martin is far too compassionate to do it either. They both know that they’re going to go in. 

“There is,” Jon says quietly, “one possible factor of this being, er. An _Eye_ thing.”

“What’s that?” 

“I’ve been feeling steadily worse all day, but it’s definitely got worse the closer we’ve got to Elias. It might be nothing, but—”

“It might not,” Martin finishes grimly. “Right. Well. That’s that, then.” 

Elias’ office has a heavy wooden door and an understated little plaque on it that says _Elias Bouchard,_ _Director of the Magnus Institute_. Right now it might as well say _Abandon hope all ye who enter here_. Martin falters outside of the door, reaching for the handle, and then lifting a fist as if he’s about to knock, and then oscillating back and forth between the two whilst shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jon snaps finally, reaching for the handle and pushing the door open. “Elias?” 

Upon a first inspection, the room looks empty. There’s a neat stack of papers on the antique desk, a pen laid neatly beside them, no detritus to indicate that anyone’s here. But Elias’ coat is still on the hook, and the wave of scent when Jon opens the door seems to hit Martin like a physical blow, sending him staggering back again. Closer up it’s less acrid, notes of warm cloves and butter spilling in between the constant, thick sugariness of it.

“ _Elias_?” Jon calls again, listening for any response. His own voice is strained, and when the next wave of sensation hits his groan is mirrored by a softer, weaker one from behind Elias’ desk. 

“Christ,” Martin mumbles, clearly doing his best to collect himself and walking into the room. Jon closes the door behind them, the two of them peering over the desk. 

Credit where it’s due, for an omega in the midst of what certainly smells like a full-blown heat, Elias looks remarkably composed. Granted, he’s sitting on the floor with his back resting against his desk, his tie undone and his jacket on the floor beside him. When he cracks his eyes open they’re unmistakably glazed, pupils blown wide, and he blinks up at Jon for a moment like he’s not quite sure why he’s there. 

“Archivist.” Jon can _hear_ how hard Elias must be trying to keep his voice steady but it’s still more a groan than it is actual speech, thick with need. 

“What the hell is going on?” Martin asks tightly and Elias turns to look at him as well, not immediately volunteering a response. “You’re- you- why are you _here_? You shouldn’t be here, you should be...God, at home, _anywhere else?”_

“Yes. Well.” Elias curls his fingers around the edge of the desk and makes a valiant effort to stand on legs that are visibly wobbling underneath him. “The circumstances are a little outside of my control.” 

“What do you mean?” Jon asks, and Elias laughs breathlessly. 

“Would you believe it if I said I lost a bet?” Before Jon can parse what on earth he might mean by that Elias doubles over, gasping, and Jon does more or less the same, both of them bracing themselves against the desk. 

“ _Elias_ ,” Jon grits out, and Elias forces his eyes open to look at him. 

“Jon.” 

“Why is this happening to me? I’m not in heat. I’m not- I think- am I feeling what you’re feeling?” 

Elias opens his mouth and then closes it again, pursing his lips in a moue of displeasure. “This is—an unfortunate development.” 

“ _What?_ ” Martin looks aghast, staring between the two of them. “Sorry. You’re- Jon, you’re feeling his _heat_?” He looks appalled at the very idea. Jon can’t blame him, really. He feels quite appalled himself. Elias waves a hand as if he’s trying to find words and finds himself not quite capable of stringing them together, a reedy sound making its way from between his clenched teeth before he pushes hard against the desk and straightens up, still holding tightly to the edge of it. 

“The Eye manifest is a matter of constituent parts,” he says finally, looking meaningfully at Jon as if he expects for that to make some sort of sense. When Jon just stares at him Elias gives an aggrieved sigh, looking around for his chair so he can collapse into it, making a show of arranging himself a little more neatly and folding his hands in his lap. 

Really, it’s quite impressive. If Elias is feeling anything like what Jon feels he _should_ be feeling then he ought to be quite incoherent by now, Jon is sure _he_ would be. Elias looks almost composed with the exception of the tension in his neck and his jaw, the sweat starting to dampen the hair at his temples. 

“You are the Archivist, yes? A physical conduit between the Eye and the earth. But you’re not the sole part of what it is to manifest the Watcher,” Elias continues. “I am, as I think I’ve hinted, a not insignificant part of the Eye as well. You’re aware of the link between myself and the Eye’s, ah—well, not acolytes. Aides, let’s say. As you grow in your abilities, Jon, that link becomes a little less metaphysical.” 

“We’re tied together,” Jon finishes. 

“Yes. It doesn’t usually start like this. This is a matter of-” Elias presses his lips together tightly against another wave, sucking in a ragged breath, “ _poor timing_. You seem to be quite prone to that.” 

“ _Excuse_ me?” Jon snarls indignantly, leaning across the desk. “This is _hardly_ my fault. What do you mean it doesn’t usually start like- how _does_ it- but Gertrude-” 

He spares a thought for whether Gertrude and Elias were tied like this—what it must have felt like when she _died_ —and Elias gives him a thin smile. 

“Yes. It was very unpleasant. In answer to your- _ah_ \- i-in answer to your question, Jon, it _usually_ starts rather more subtly. I do wish you’d stop drinking coffee late at night. I haven’t slept properly for a week.” 

“This is crazy,” Martin whispers from the back of the room and Jon turns to look at him for the first time. He’s drawn tense and tight, hands clenched to fists at his sides, trousers distinctly tented. A reaction to the smell, no doubt. It’s almost suffocating, and Jon can’t quite imagine what it must feel like for Martin to stand there, immobile, unwilling to step forward or move further away. 

“Yes, well.” Elias spreads his hands in something like a shrug, though the effect is spoiled by the way it reveals his legs, the darkness spreading against his thighs where he must be soaked through. His nipples are hard, visible through his crisp, white shirt. “It’s exa- _ahh_ -” his shudder then is visible, legs clamping together as he throws his head back and stifles another cry, Jon wincing in sympathy and - unfortunately - empathy both. “Exacerbated,” Elias hisses when he’s recovered, “by proximity. If you go home then you’ll be more or less fine.” 

“More or less?” 

“Jon,” Elias sounds downright exasperated, “I assure you that in this matter your well-being really is my paramount concern. It won’t do me any favours to have you hurt now, on top of everything else.” 

“No. I suppose I can see that.” Jon looks around the little office, frowning. “So we can just leave.” 

“That’s right.”

“What will you-” Jon stops, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Do you have anything that might help?” 

Elias looks almost surprised by the question, holding tightly to the arms of his chair. “I assume you’re capable of helping yourself through this without my assistance-” 

“Not _me_. You.” 

“Ah.” Elias gives him a rueful little smile. “Regrettably I didn’t think it necessary to keep that sort of _supply_ here.” 

“Then why are you _here?”_ Martin asks again.

“I assure you, the matter was taken out of my hands.” 

“Helpful as always, aren’t you,” Martin hisses. “Christ. Jon—” 

Jon is still looking at Elias. His chest is heaving, and Jon can see the sheen of sweat through the open collar of his shirt, the way his arms and wrists are held tense where his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. It’s a strange thing to feel the faint heat, the phantom pain, the need, and know that it’s a shadow of what Elias is feeling at that very moment. A sort of bizarre symbiosis. 

“I assume you’d prefer us not to call a doctor,” he says quietly, and Elias nods. 

“That’s right. I assure you I’ll be fine.” 

“That’s not as reassuring as you seem to think it is.” Jon runs a hand through his hair, stifling a frustrated noise before turning back to Martin. “We can’t leave him.” 

Martin doesn’t protest. Unhappiness is writ large across his face but he nods stiffly. Elias watches them both with naked curiosity and Jon exhales hard. 

“Right. Well. If you’re past the worst of it, then we can get you home,” he says slowly. “But we’ll need to get you past the worst of it first. And if you’re going to feel appalling until then, then so am I, and so you’d better do- _something_. To help.” 

“What would you suggest, Jon?” Under normal circumstances Jon can quite imagine Elias’ silky, condescending voice wrapping around those words, mild and patronising. Right now he sounds almost pained, almost desperate. 

“I-” Jon shakes his head. “I don’t know. What would you normally do?” 

Elias gives him a flat look and Jon groans, turning away. “God. I- we could-” 

“You could always sit in the waiting room,” Elias suggests. Jon spares a thought to sitting tensely in reception, listening to the clock tick and the muffled sound of Elias _making do_ with whatever he can find in the office. He shakes his head firmly. If they’re going to do this then it’s better to confront it head-on, surely, than to just linger at the edges. If they’re going to do that, then they might as well leave. 

“I could help,” Martin suggests. When Jon twists to look at him he just shrugs. 

“We’re here. And it’s not- look, it’s not because it’ll help _Elias_ ,” he spits out. 

“Charming.” 

“ _Shut up_. It’s not because of Elias. But it will help you. To be- you know.” 

“I know,” Jon replies, nodding. In the absence of toys properly suited to the job, there’s only one thing that’s going to take the edge off the cresting, clenching urges Elias - and therefore Jon, by proxy - is experiencing. “I- are you sure?” 

Martin just throws his hands up into the air, pacing a small circle on the carpet of Elias’ office. “I’m- I mean, no, not really, because this entire situation is just… it’s _bonkers_ , Jon, isn’t it? You two have some sort of symbiotic _link_ now? And Elias is in heat, and I- I want to help you, so if I want to help you then I have to help him, and the only way that I can help him is to- to- so yeah, yeah, I mean, I suppose I am sure.” 

“Elias?” Jon asks without looking away from Martin. 

“To tell you the truth,” Elias mumbles, clearly losing his grip on his facade of arch superiority as the minutes tick on, “I really didn’t think either of you would be here this long.” 

There’s something distinctly uncomfortable about that. Jon feels viscerally discomfited by the idea of Elias here alone, vulnerable and abandoned and in pain. He shakes that thought off and nods towards the door, still holding Martin’s gaze. 

“Would you like me to go?” 

Martin opens his mouth and closes it again, looking pained. “I mean...I can understand why you’d want to. This isn’t going to be—delicate?” He looks like he’s barely holding his composure as it is. Given the scent in the air and how angry Martin looks, Jon can’t imagine it’s going to be an especially gentle affair. 

“I am familiar with what usually happens in a heat,” Jon sighs. “I assure you you’re not going to offend my sensibilities.” Even if the thought of Martin wrapping his arms around Elias, _kissing_ him, sets Jon’s teeth on edge in a way that he can’t quite articulate. “I think I’d...I think I’d prefer to stay.” 

“Right.” Martin nods, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Right. Yeah. Alright. You could, er-” he gestures vaguely to the empty chair in Elias’ office and Jon makes his way over, sitting down gingerly on the edge and trying to ignore the overwhelming _strangeness_ of this situation. Martin puts a hand on his shoulder and Jon nearly jumps out of his skin, staring up at him. “If you want to, we’ll go. If you tell me to stop, or to- to do something different, or- or anything. I will.” 

Jon nods mutely, feeling the warmth of Martin’s hand soak into him like bathwater, comforting and indulgent all at once. He finds himself leaning into the contact, reaching up to wrap his fingers around Martin’s wrist before he can pull away.

“Martin,” he asks slowly, “would it help if I- if I directed you?” 

Martin’s jaw drops open. Jon can smell shock, alkaline and sterile like bleach, and embarrassment, and underneath it all a rich, peaty smokiness, an instant and electric shock of what must be arousal. Behind Martin Elias almost _whines_ , but Martin doesn’t look around. 

“Yes,” Martin says softly. “Yeah, it would, actually.”

Which makes its own sort of sense, Jon supposes. It’s a way for Martin to rationalise this. He’s doing as Jon asks for Jon’s benefit, not because of Elias and not at Elias’ behest. And he has to admit that the idea gives him a place in the room as well, which will keep him from pacing awkwardly outside and waiting to feel better. 

“Right. Well, then.” Jon takes another deep breath. “In that case-” 

“I _hate_ to interrupt,” Elias bites out, “but if you wouldn’t mind-” 

“I would, actually.” Jon reaches up to touch Martin’s cheek, brushing a thumb over it. “Are you sure you’re alright with this?” 

Martin nods, turning his face against the heel of Jon’s hand. Jon feels so utterly fond of him he could _melt_. But beyond that he can feel the unceasing need like lightning in his veins, so he only lingers a moment more before folding his hands in his lap with a sigh and turning his eyes to Elias. 

“Well. I suppose you’d better both start by undressing.” 

Elias’ hands go to the buttons of his shirt with alacrity and once again Jon wonders at his restraint, such as it is, to have not simply ripped his clothes away by now when they must feel _stifling_. Martin is a little slower, tugging his jumper over his head and his t-shirt with it, toeing off his shoes. Jon drags his eyes over the curve of Martin’s upper arms, the sweep of his belly, the softness of his nipples. Martin is all softness, it seems, and Jon feels a tug in his belly like a hook that makes him want to step forwards, to fold himself into the plush and welcoming comfort of Martin Blackwood. Safe and warm. 

Instead, he watches as Elias finishes undressing. His thighs are already gleaming with slick, the long line of his body lean, his chest flushed. The smell of him is intoxicating, and Martin lets out what sounds like a honest-to-goodness _growl_ , pulling his trousers and his underwear down and approaching Elias. 

Martin looks taller like this. His shoulders are back, his head high, the hard line of his erection jutting out from under his belly. He has a good few inches of height on Elias and whilst Elias is clearly doing his best to hold his own, standing as straight as he can manage, Jon can see the trepidation in his eyes when Martin approaches. 

“What now, Jon?” Martin asks mildly, settling his hands at his sides and letting his eyes sweep up and down Elias’ body. 

“Well-” Elias starts, and Martin reaches out to catch him by the jaw, his grip firm enough that Jon wonders whether it will bruise. 

“I wasn’t talking to you. If we’re doing this then you’re going to keep nice and quiet and listen to what Jon tells us. And you _do_ want us to do this, Elias, don’t you?” 

Elias looks speechless. Jon can’t blame him. He leans forward in his chair a little, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin on his folded hands, watching as Elias nods mutely with his jaw still held firmly in Martin’s hand. 

“Right. So. Jon?” 

“I think,” Jon considers the need arcing through him, the myriad emotions of the day, and nods decisively. “I think Elias owes you a thank-you, first off. For helping you through this.” 

Elias’ sideways glance speaks volumes but he doesn’t protest when Jon nods pointedly to the floor, lowering himself to his knees and opening his mouth for Martin’s cock. And whilst it might not be what he feels he needs right now, he takes to it with surprising enthusiasm, Martin gasping and burying his hands in Elias’ hair as Elias bobs his head and takes Martin deep, drooling shamelessly around this cock. 

“Oh, fuck,” Martin breathes. “A-ah..he...oh, _God_ -” 

Well-practiced, then, Jon assumes. He wonders who it is Elias spends his time with to have grown so good at this. Martin is _huge_ , Jon’s familiar enough with basic proportions to be able to ascertain that, but Elias seems quite unintimidated by the size of him. Encouraged by it, even, as he holds still and pulls impatiently at Martin’s thighs to pull his hips into a rocking motion, encouraging him to fuck into his face. 

“ _Jon_ ,” Martin breathes, and Jon feels his cheeks flame, looking up at Martin with parted lips. 

“Martin?” 

Martin just shakes his head, eyes on Jon, desperate and pleasure-hazed. Jon considers this for a moment before leaning back in the chair, giving himself a moment to soak in all of the feelings whirling through his body. 

“He likes this,” he tells Martin finally, giving him an encouraging smile. “Being used like this, I mean. He enjoys it.” 

“Yeah?” Martin says breathlessly, giving a hard thrust that has Elias gagging, pulling back to cough and splutter before Martin takes him by the back of the head and pulls him right back again. “Well, he’s good at it.” 

“So I should hope.” If he concentrates, Jon can feel more than just the physical sensations assailing Elias now. There’s strata to it, depths, the brightness of need and dimmer flashes of exasperation, of impatience, of satisfaction. Even now, on his knees and abased, Elias has somehow found a way to be smug. 

Jon feels—something almost like fondness. And Elias opens his eyes and looks at Jon with something like _victory_ in his eyes. Something like surrender. 

“Jon,” Martin says again, rather more urgently, and Jon realises with a jolt what he means. 

“Oh. You, ah-” he opens his mouth to say that Elias ought to stop, ought to pull back, but Elias’ eyes are still on him, and Jon just shakes his head instead. “You can come. On his face, if you like.” 

Elias’ expression creases with indignation but he’s hardly in a position to make a fuss, not when Martin’s pulling him back and fisting his cock roughly, expression strained. Jon watches with fascination as Martin gasps, choked little noises sticking in his throat, seemingly caught on the edge of something until Jon bites his lower lip and says “go on, Martin. Go on,” and Martin cries out, painting Elias’ cheeks and the bridge of his nose with come. 

“ _God_ ,” Martin breathes like it’s been punched out of him, letting go of Elias’ hair. Jon gives it a moment or so before standing and crossing the room to retrieve a tissue from the little box on Elias’ desk, handing it to him with the most pleasant smile he can muster. 

“You’ll need this.” 

“So it seems,” Elias replies, his voice rough with use, clearing himself up as best he can. “I take it you’re enjoying this little exercise in control?” 

“Not half as much as you are,” Jon says simply, and Elias chuckles. 

“Ah, well. You have me there.” 

There’s a knowing little glint in his eyes that makes Jon look away, swallowing hard. “You’ll, ah-” Jon clears his throat, tries again, his mouth suddenly quite dry. “That’ll do for now. The desk, I think. Er- you could bend over it, Elias, but you might be better off getting onto it.” 

Elias obeys, uncharacteristically quiet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and hopping up onto the desk to do what Jon can only describe as _presenting_. He can’t blame him for that either, not when he can feel how much Elias needs this, how much his body is calling out to be filled, to be satisfied, to be knotted. It’s all-consuming. Elias drops his weight down to his elbows and spreads his knees apart, hips lifted, and Jon can see the way Martin shudders at the sight of him slick and glistening and open. 

“Go on,” Jon says softly. “You can touch him.” 

“How?” Martin asks, and Jon’s about to make some sarcastic comment when Martin turns to look at him and smiles, and Jon feels understanding settle on him like a weight. It’s not just a rational device. Martin really _wants_ to be directed, for Jon to tell him exactly what to do, and how. He swallows hard, nodding. His heart is thumping so hard against his chest he feels it might just punch through, might fly across the room to Martin’s hands where it belongs. 

“You could start by touching his cock,” he suggests lightly, and from the table Elias turns his head, resting his cheek against the wood of the desk and watching Jon with an inscrutable expression. It’s not what he wants, Jon knows that—he wants to be filled, he’s _desperate_ for it. Foreplay is the last thing he wants. 

With another strange burst of clarity, Jon realises that he also knows that Elias will take whatever he’s given without protest. Not because he has no choice, but because Jon asks it of him. 

“Unless,” he adds, holding Elias’ gaze, “you’d like to ask for something else?” 

Elias manages a laugh then, breathless and delighted, and he buries his face briefly in his folded arms. 

“You are just full of surprises, Archivist. Alright, then—if that’s what you want. _Please_ ,” he groans, spreading his knees a little further apart. “Please, Jon. Have him fuck me.” 

No hesitation. No shame, either, that Jon can see. It’s terrifying, that level of openness, Elias baring his body and his will for Jon. Jon wants to wonder whether this is just another facet of Elias’ heat, whether he would do this otherwise, but he’s terribly afraid that he already knows the answer. 

He nods, turning his eyes back to Martin. “There’s no hurry. Use your, ah- your fingers, first. Make sure he’s open enough.” 

Martin nods, and the slide of two of his fingers into Elias’ cunt is slick and smooth. They simply disappear into him. Elias groans like he’s been wounded, eyes rolling back into his head as his toes curl and his back bows, pressing his hips back towards Martin’s hand with absolute urgency. It seems to break something of a dam in Martin who bares his teeth and twists his wrist a little, pumping two fingers - then three - firmly in and out of Elias. 

Jon is relieved to find that he doesn’t feel the exact visceral sensation of being filled by Martin’s fingers in his own body. Instead it’s just a lessening of some of the urgency, sparks of pleasure skipping and fizzing down his spine like pebbles over a lake. He lets out an unsteady breath and rubs a hand over his face, eyes wide as he drinks in the scene, the noises Elias is making, the way Martin’s cock is starting to harden again, plump and red between his thighs. 

“Do you think he’d come from this?” Martin asks, and Jon finds with faint surprise that he knows the answer to this, tilting his head as he considers it. 

“No. But if you touch his cock too, he will.” 

“Shall I?” 

“Elias?” Jon says, watching Elias exert the effort to look at him, mouth hanging open as he tries to catch his breath around the moans spilling out from between his lips. 

“Please,” Elias breathes, and Jon nods. 

“Let him come.” 

Martin puts his free hand between Elias’ legs to rub tight little circles around his cock and Elias gasps, his legs shaking as he almost buckles under his own weight, scrabbling to find purchase again and clenching hard around Martin’s fingers, slick gushing from the lips of his cunt over his thighs as he lets out a long, ragged groan. 

It feels- like sitting in a patch of sunlight. Like a first sip of tea. Bone-deep satisfaction after restless hours of need. Though Jon knows from experience that such satiety won’t last long, he doesn’t begrudge Elias a few seconds of soaking in it, catching his breath and letting out a few more shivery little moans as he continues to clench around Martin’s fingers. 

“Alright. You can put it in him now,” he murmurs. “Go on, Martin.” 

Martin braces a knee on the desk, lining himself up and pressing his cock between the lips of Elias’ cunt, sliding it up and down while Elias whines with wordless desperation, tipping his hips up as far as he can. 

Martin doesn’t push in all in one go. He reaches down to rub firmly at Elias’ cock again, watching with a grim sort of satisfaction as Elias cries out and clenches tight, white-knuckling the edge of the desk, drawn taut with oversensitivity that has Jon shifting his weight from foot to foot and drawing in a steady breath. 

“Manipulative bastard,” Martin mutters under his breath, still holding his cock just outside of Elias. “Bet this is what you wanted all along.” 

Elias doesn’t reply, but the thought lodges itself in Jon’s head and he wanders around the desk to take a handful of Elias’ hair and tug his head gently up, forcing him to meet his eyes. Elias looks wrecked, his lips swollen where he’s bitten them, his cheeks flushed and red. 

“Is it?” Jon asks mildly. And then, with a further press into that well of power that’s still so new to him, “ **Did you want Martin to fuck you?”**

Elias surprises him by not flinching away from the question but moaning instead, leaning his head into Jon’s hand and gasping for breath. “Yes,” he gasps finally, “and no, Archivist.” 

The expression on his face is one of unabashed adoration. Jon thinks he could probably wrap his hand around Elias’ throat and Elias might just let him, would hold still and curtail his breathing until Jon told him to do otherwise. 

“I see,” he says quietly, and Elias’ laugh is tinged with desperation. 

“I _know_.” 

“Go on, Martin.” 

Martin thrusts forward in one smooth motion and Elias’ groan is strangled and overwhelmed. Had it not been for Jon’s hand in his hair his head would have fallen straight forward onto the desk again, but as it is Jon is privy to the sheer bliss on his face, the relief of finally having what he’s craved for _hours_. Martin thrusts in hard, mercilessly so, his hand still on Elias’ cock, and Jon can see the exact moment on Elias’ face when he lets go, clenching and coming hard around Martin. It’s relief beyond relief, ripping through Elias like wildfire, and he _wails_.

Not that Martin seems to pay much mind to that, still thrusting hard until Jon shivers at the raw oversensitivity that sends static to his fingertips and the back of his neck, his nose full of the smell of them both, his ears and his eyes both overwhelmed by it all. 

“How does it feel?” Jon asks, lifting his eyes to Martin, and Martin makes a clear effort to reply coherently, still thrusting into Elias hard enough that Elias seems beyond speech, all but _wailing_ as the base of Martin’s cock continues to swell, catching on him with each thrust in and pull out. 

“ _Tight_ ,” Martin replies shortly. 

“Hm.” Jon looks back down at Elias, patting his cheek gently with his free hand. “You can do better, can’t you? Show me.” 

Elias, apparently, just does that, and Martin swears breathlessly, giving a few more short thrusts and then pressing deep into Elias with a groan, head falling back with something that - 

Well, Jon can’t be certain. But it sounds almost like his name. 

He lets go of Elias’ hair and lets his head fall back to the desk, surveying them both. The air is thick with sweat and Elias is panting like he’s run a marathon, back still arched gorgeously. When Jon walks around to Martin’s side he can see Elias’ hole stretched slick and shiny around Martin’s knot, and when Jon reaches out to run a curious finger over the place where they meet they both groan. 

“Well done,” he tells Martin quietly and Martin laughs, ducking his head. 

“Oh, you know me, Jon. Always happy to help. I’m, um- are you okay?” 

“Me?” Jon shakes his head disbelievingly. “I’m fine.” 

“And-” Martin nods to Elias and Jon nods again. 

“Better. For the moment. If you’re- if you’re still happy to, he might need another-” 

Martin hums agreement before Jon has to finish the sentence, tapping Elias on the hip to get his attention. “I’m going to turn you over, alright? I’ll be gentle, but you’re, er- you’re still caught on me, so don’t flail around too much.” 

Elias huffs in exasperation, managing to lift his head enough to give Martin a sharp look over his shoulder. “I assure you I’m not much given to flailing in the normal course of- _ah_!” 

He’s cut off by Martin placing a sharp swat on one of Elias’ thighs, and Elias stares at him like he’s turned water into wine. “Told you to hush, didn’t I?” Martin says cheerfully. “Deep breath, now.” 

With a bit of manoeuvering and no small amount of hisses of discomfort from Elias and Martin both, eventually Elias is lying on his back on the desk with Martin still inside him. Martin gives Elias’ hip a squeeze, flushing when Jon gives him a look of inquiry. 

“ _What_? He’s- I’m just being nice,” he says defensively. Jon and Elias share a glance before Jon just nods, listening to the sound of Elias and Martin catching their breath. 

“This might be a bit of an odd time,” he ventures tentatively, “but can I- Martin, would you mind terribly if I...if I hugged you?” 

“Scandalous,” Elias mutters, rolling his eyes, but he lifts his hand in surrender before Martin can smack him again. “ _Alright_.” 

Jon has the feeling that Elias doesn’t mind a smack on the thigh half so much as he’s pretending to, but it’s not the foremost concern on his mind. Instead he steps closer, walking behind Martin and folding himself forwards to wrap his arms tightly around his waist and nuzzle between his shoulderblades, breathing him in. 

It’s-

It’s everything he hoped for and more. Martin melts back into him and Jon lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding for _weeks_ , revelling in the feel of his skin, the feeling of being pressed close, the both of them warm and safe, Martin’s palpable fondness for him mixing in with Jon’s devotion, and underneath it all a steady thread of-

Boredom? 

“Do you _mind_?” Jon snaps, pulling away to glower at Elias who widens his eyes in mock-innocence, blinking exaggeratedly at him. 

“What _exactly_ do you expect me to do? Spare a thought for me, Jon; you’ve no _idea_ how disconcerting it is to be wallowing in all of _that_ whilst I’m looking at your assistant.” 

“I think I’ve given you enough thought tonight,” Jon grumbles, pressing his head back between Martin’s shoulderblades, and Elias gives a martyred little sigh, letting his head fall with a thunk to the desk. 

“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, I’m sure. I did give you the option to leave.” 

“You did,” Jon agrees grudgingly. “So what happens now?” 

“Now?” Elias stretches his arms over his head. “Well, I assume it will take a while for Martin’s knot to go down. I have about half an hour before things get _frantic_ again, so I suppose I’ll have to try and coordinate some daring escape plan home between those two junctures.” 

“No, you-” Jon groans, rolling his eyes. “To _us_ , Elias. This... _bond_.” 

“Ah.” Elias breathes in, breathes out. “As I said, it’s affected by proximity. To a greater or lesser extent, you and I will have an idea of what the other is feeling. Physically, emotionally, and so on.” 

“I see.” Jon considers this for a few moments, rubbing circles on Martin’s hip with one thumb. “Does this mean you won’t let me get kidnapped again?” 

“ _Well_ -” Elias begins, only for Martin to flatten a palm against his belly and pin him firmly down, fixing him with a stern look. 

“Yeah, I’d think pretty carefully about that answer.” 

Elias smiles, looking more amused than he is intimidated, arching his back and giving a little roll of his hip as if to test his range of motion. “As I said. Your wellbeing is my paramount concern.” 

To a point. They all know it. Jon nods slowly. In some ways—in _some_ ways—it’s an improvement. At least if he can feel that Elias is gleeful about something, he’ll know to start getting worried. 

“You know this is the longest conversation I’ve had with you that hasn’t ended in- I don’t know. A breakdown. Crying. Fury,” Martin observes dryly, looking at Elias, and Elias gives him his most pleasant, bureaucratic smile. Given that he’s naked on a desk and full of Martin’s cock, it’s almost impressive. 

“Perhaps I find you more useful like this.” 

“I’ll bet,” Martin mutters. “Don’t get used to it.” 

“Mmm.” Elias tilts his head one way and then the other in an almost reptilian motion. “If you say so.” 

He’s still appalling like this, obviously. Manipulative, smug, exasperating. Then again...it’s probably a facet of this bizarre new bond of theirs, but Jon feels a little warmer towards him than he has in quite some time. At least Elias is _predictably_ awful. 

And there’s the matter of that adoration, that devotion, but—he’ll think about that another time. 

When Martin’s knot goes down enough to let him slip out and get dressed again, Jon watches with a detached sort of interest as come trickles out of Elias and onto his desk, a sordid little puddle underneath him. Elias must notice him watching because he props up a leg, shameless as ever, adjusting his position a little on the desk with a sigh. 

“No need to worry, Jon; I assure you my birth control and so forth is all quite in order.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve planned everything.” Jon replies dryly. “How are you feeling?” 

“You know the answer to that.” 

“Tell me anyway.” 

Elias sighs with something like fondness, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Mm. Better. I’ll be just fine from here.” 

“Right.” Jon nods slowly. “We’ll need to talk about this properly.” 

“I can get you an appointment in a couple of weeks.” It’s deadpan and solemn, and Jon is about to snap something back when he _feels_ the mirth fizzing up through him like champagne bubbles, the sparkle of Elias laughing internally at his own jokes. 

“You’re a real bastard,” Jon mutters, and Elias just smiles at him. 

“So I’m told. Go on, now, go home. It’s late.” 

It is late. Jon knuckles his hands into his eyes and waits for Martin to finish dressing, reaching out to take his hand once he’s close enough. It feels, frankly, as if they might just be at that point. 

“You’ll be alright?” he asks Elias just once more before they leave, and Elias rolls his eyes. 

“You’ll know if I’m not.” 

“Fine. Goodnight, then.” Jon lets Martin pull him from the office, closing the door behind them and exchanging a long look with him before simply leaning into his side and letting him lead them outside. 

In the office Elias lets out a long breath, stretching until his spine pops and watching as a shadow in the corner materialises into the Lonely’s favourite sailor, Peter ambling over and offering Elias a cigarette. 

“It is traditional,” he says cheerfully and Elias rolls his eyes but takes one, sitting up for Peter to light it. “That went well.” 

“Well for you.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. You might have lost the bet, but you seemed to have a pleasant enough time,” Peter grins. “Protective, isn’t he?” 

“Mm? Oh. Martin. Yes, very.” 

“Seems positively joined at the hip with the Archivist.” 

“So it seems.” 

“How did that come about?” 

Elias shoots Peter a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. “Do you mind if I tell you his history another time, Peter? I’ve the better half of a heat to get through after all, and since you were kind enough to leave me bereft for the first portion-” 

“Yes, yes.” Peter shrugs his coat off, settling the heavy wool around Elias’ shoulders with a smile. “Shame about your Archivist. You were so sure he’d just leave you.” 

“Mm.” Elias takes a drag, sighing it out in a cloud of smoke. “He’s too softhearted for his own good. It might just be the death of him. But then again...well. It might not. We’ll see. Come on, now. Take me home.” 

In the taxi on the way home Jon leans into Martin’s side, resting his head against his shoulder and trying not to feel unnerved by the golden glow of satisfaction that melts into every muscle and leaves him weary and content. At least when Martin leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, Jon can rest easy knowing that each inch of that feeling is his. 


End file.
